


The Royal Messenger [WIP]

by Nefaelibata



Category: OCs - Fandom
Genre: Adventure, Kings & Queens, Magic, Royalty, Satyr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 12:50:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17264561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nefaelibata/pseuds/Nefaelibata
Summary: Flynn is a Royal Messenger for King Zellium. He delivers information entrusted to the Royal Messengers from King Zellium to a Tribelord in Reon.Join him in a short, uninteresting, and terribly-written depiction of his journey to Reon.





	The Royal Messenger [WIP]

King Zellium sighs, irritated, with closed eyes, and flattens his long braided white hair. "Where is my crown?" His servant scuttles back into his room, away from his vanity, and returns carrying a pastel pink pillow. On top of it rests his crown made of silver and metallic green metal strands twisted and wrapped and curved to give the impression of vines.

"It is here, your majesty," She says and holds it out to him.

"Thank you." King Zellium says curtly and takes his crown from its resting place. He adjusts it on his head until it is perfect. "Where is my Queen?" He twists around a little bit and watches his long, droopy robes swish and brush against the floor, admiring his own physique and elegance.

"She is in the sunroom, my lord," She says while standing in the doorway. "Shall I see to her?"

"No," He says softly and adjusts the straightness of his hair again. "Whenever she is ready, I hope she joins me in the throne room. Sometimes it's boring out there," the King says with a drawl slower than usual, a result of the intense focus on his hair, "being alone with the company of guards only." She hums, agreeing. "You may go, now."

"Yes, my lord," She states with a low bow of her head and leaves his quarters.

The King adjusts the length of his sleeves now, making sure they fit the length of his arms perfectly. The silver leaf-like patterns hand-sewn into the fabric catch the bright sunlight coming in from a grand window behind the mirrors he is using. They seem to glow even brighter against the dark green in between the leaves. He picks up a small pin with a sun on it and attaches it directly in the center on the collar of his robes. With his long, thin fingers, the King carefully raises a silver earring up to one pointed ear and–

"Sir, you have a visitor," He hears suddenly and nearly stabs himself with it.

With a disapproving huff, the King lightly scolds, "Gods, Gabriel. How are you so _quiet_ in that armor?"

"I was trained only by the best, father." He bows his head. "Flynn awaits you in the throne room."

"Tell me, how urgent is his message?"

"He did not specify, my lord."

"I'll see to him in a moment." He finishes putting in the last earring. There are three on his lobe, each of them in size order from shortest to longest.  "You may leave."

"Yes, sir."

 

 

The quick clicks of hoof-steps echo around the silent dome-like throne room. A deep boom reverberates around as well as the giant castle doors close, adding just a little bit more to the unusual eeriness of the room itself. Tall and skinny windows run along the walls vertically, letting in a brilliant amount of sunlight into the room made of the same white stone as the city's walls. Flynn walks along the white granite pathway in between two large gardens full of enchanting and well-kept flora. In the middle of both gardens stand a tree nearly as tall as the throne room. Their branches and leaves droop down much like those of a willow tree, but are not of that species.

When Flynn reaches the middle of the throne room, he sets his knapsack down and flips open the top. He sticks a hand inside and rummages around for a brown, leather-bound journal. King Zellium and Tribelord Garuyl-na of Reon use it for sending important and secret information back and forth. Things they cannot entrust to a regular-route courier. Things only the trusted royal messengers can bring back and forth between the two countries. Indeed they are both far away from each other, but the ginger satyr believes the physical benefits and adventure-filled aspect of the long and perilous journey make the trip worth it. He does not walk the entire way, though. He is a royal messenger, after all. During his many months of training, he had learned basic teleportation spells with the help of the other three royal messengers. They’ve proven useful whenever his legs hurt.

 

"How wonderful to see you again, Flynn," Queen Zellium says as she sits down on her throne next to the King's. Both of them are made of the roots of the two trees in the gardens. She smiles at him and cocks her head to the side. "Have you considered clearing out some of those extra papers?" She asks after seeing him toss out a seemingly endless amount of parchment paper onto the floor.

"Once, and it was now," He states. The Queen bursts into soft laughter. He pulls out the journal and carefully places it on the floor.

"You've grown to look old." She crosses her legs and raises an eyebrow. "Did the Tribelord really not let you clean yourself?"

"It was a very quick mission. But when I have time, I always do," He says. "How have you been during the time I've been gone, milady?" He shoves the excess papers into his knapsack and closes it.

"I've been well, thank you." She nods her head at Gabriel, silently telling him to inform the King of his Messenger's arrival. "It looks like you ran into no trouble while on the road, no?"

"None at all. Say, will the King be out soon?"

She sighs, amused. "I'm afraid I don't know. You know how important vanity is to him."

Flynn rolls his eyes and sits down in the middle of the walkway. _How wonderful it feels to actually be able to sit again_ _,_ he thinks. "How could I forget?" He asks sarcastically. "All that time in the forest and with the Tribelord must be making me forget things."

"Oh, don't worry. You have a lot to think about while on your journey." The Queen leans out from her throne and looks to the doorway on the left side of her. Her son strides back in gracefully from the King’s vanity room. "I think he's coming."

With a tired grunt, Flynn stands back up and slips his bag on. He picks up the journal and flips through the pages to find the most recent entry. A folded sheet of paper that falls onto the floor goes unnoticed by Flynn.

 

The King steps foot into the throne room and breaks into a wide grin at the sight of his half-elf wife. "My love, thank you for joining me." He sits down on the largest throne. "She told you, didn't she?" He asks knowingly.

"Of course she did. You know that."

He directs his attention to Flynn. "What news have you brought, Flynn? Is Garuyl-na's army strong still?"

His messenger bows his head low. "Yes, your Majesty. His army is growing stronger as the days go by." Flynn let the journal drop open again as he walks up to the King's throne. "I'm afraid I don't know what was written this time, I apologize, my lord."

"No matter," King Zellium says slowly as he reads the pages. He looks up and smiles softly. "All matters have been settled. My concerns and worries at the southern borders have been lifted. That is why you were not informed this time around." He goes back to reading.

The Queen squints her eyes as she looks between Flynn's brown hooves. "Flynn," She says, "what is that behind you on the floor?"

He looks alarmed for a moment and then turns around. "Oh, this? I have no idea," He says as he picks it up. "Here, milady." He hands the folded slip of paper to her and bows his head.

She takes it from him and raises an eyebrow at the markings on it. "It's addressed to you!" She exclaims and smiles at him, handing back the paper. "Read it!" He eagerly unfolds it.

_Flynn,_

_I understand the dangers and challenges you face on every journey to and from Reon, and I know that you risk your life each time as well. Hopefully, you will be happy to hear this._

_I have reserved a house for you here in my territory. The other tribesmen are more than eager to show you around. I also assigned a small fleet of warriors to you. There should be six of them the next time you arrive. You should know by now that the feral tribesmen kill anyone not of their own clan; I will not take the risk of you being assassinated._

_We all look forward to seeing you soon._

_Safe travels,_

_Tribelord Garuyl-na_

He blinks at the signature a few times more and studies the scribbled letters. _They seem to match his other writings,_ he notices. They look familiar enough to be the same handwriting in the journal. _I suppose it's real, then. This is genuinely from him._ The Royal Majesties look at him with soft smiles. The King's eyes hold a knowing glint in them.

"You have proven your trustworthiness by not directly reading the journal unless instructed to do so, Flynn," The King starts. "I assume that means you don't know where your quarters are, then?" At a loss for words, he shakes his head slowly. "Find Ira, Gabriel. She will show him to his quarters."

"Yes, my lord." He bows his head deeply and marches off to find her.

"Your Majesty, I am perfectly content with my home in Water's Edge. My family and I still do our work to keep living there."

The Queen's smile grew. "Look in Merfolk Bay." His eyes went wide. "We have given your parents a house. You and your family do hard work. You all have proven faithful to your King and country."

"Consider it a thank you."

"Delivering messages and growing plants is _not_ hard work, milady, my lord. I don’t understand why you’re giving me these things."

"The business your family has started with growing plants and herbs for others has saved countless lives." The King nods at Gabriel. "Far more than much of Cephem. I believe that is considered honorable."

Flynn bows his head quickly, looks at Ira, and then looks at the Royal Majesties for unspoken permission. They both nod. "Thank you. Thank you so much," He whispers and bows again. _I'm making a fool of myself,_ he thinks as he starts following Ira.

 

"I've never been this far in the castle before," He admits.

Ira nods understandingly. "It's quite beautiful."

"What do you do here?" He looks through each open doorway and window his eyes come across.

Never in his life has he been surrounded in such intricate architecture. Yes, the throne room has intricate designs and patterns, but they're not something he's ever bothered to notice or take a greater interest in. The ceiling in the hallway they are passing through has a mural of angels and clouds and suns. There are flowers and trees, and beautiful women and men on other ones he looks down. He is in awe of the vine-like designs chiseled by hand at the bases of pillars. Even the doors have elegant-looking designs on them. Everything is enchanting to his eyes.

He is suddenly filled with insecurity and shame. A poor farm boy who wears rags for clothes and just so happens to be a Royal Messenger for two great leaders, walks through a palace to his own room because his family grows plants and he delivers messages. It doesn't feel right to him.

"I'm a servant. Most of the time I am with the King. He jokes around and calls me his personal hairdresser." She chuckles. "He only lets me and his wife touch his hair."

"You do a wonderful job. How long does it take you to braid that much hair?" He grips onto the railing as she leads him down a steep staircase.

"Not too long considering I've done it for a large portion of my life." She looks behind her and at Flynn as she turns to the right, down another long hallway. The mural on this hallway's ceiling is of the night sky. She notices him looking up at it in awe. "The murals represent what sections of the castle are used for," She starts. "If you noticed, the main hallway we walked through with the giant windows have clouds and suns. That hallway is kind of like a sunroom. This one is for the sleeping quarters of servants, messengers, chefs…. There's another mural, too, one of flowers and plants. That is where the King's gardens and gardeners are."

"Do they take care of the main four in the throne room?"

"Yes, they do."

"Quite impressive."

"I agree." She pushes open a door and holds it open for him. "This is where you can stay from now on. It's optional, of course." She keeps her foot in the doorway. "While you are gone, it will remain locked. We'll send someone in to clean off dust, but your things will remain safe in here."

"Thank you," He says, humbled. "Are there baths here?"

"There is one behind the divider right there." She points to the left side of the room. "It has running water. You know how to use it?"

"I've used one a couple of times. I’ll figure it out."

"Alright. I'll leave you to it, then."

"Thank you," He says.

 

 

 

He certainly never could imagine himself standing inside his own living quarters in the palace. Like many, he's only heard stories of its inner beauty. Now, he looks upon it for himself. A tall, silver-lined mirror stands directly across from him alongside a gorgeous white sink and a rather elegant-looking toilet. He sees that the silver handles on the faucet of his own white bathtub look like willow tree leaves, and he further notices that the rest of the bathtub looks like one gigantic, dipped leaf. As he twists one of the faucets, he sees a pile of white clothes resting on a stool next to it. Curiously, he reaches over and takes the soft bundle into his hands. He revels in the fact that it is made of sturdy cotton, not some flimsy and thin fabric. The tunic and pants are white, not a color he usually wears, but who is he to refuse? With excitement plowing through his veins, he unfolds them, careful not to drop them into the bathtub.

“Wow,” He breathes out with a giddy smile. Candles flickering around the room didn’t give him the best light to see finer details, but he could feel the stitchery for a small insignia, and he could feel buttons and skinny strips of leather used to tie the tunic shut.

While washing himself,  he even stops to look at it again. His hands have never been graced to feel something so soft and well-made. He’s never been of the right class to be deserving of this kind of material. Despite feeling honored, he can’t help but feel like he’s being mocked. For almost three years he has been going back and forth from Zellium to Reon. _Three_ years. _Why would I get some kind of recognition now instead of earlier?_ He frowns and massages his temples. _It’s probably best that I go along with it._ With a sigh, he rinses his hair one final time and then pulls the drain plug.

His eyes land on the clothes he tossed back onto the stool. _Should I…?_ He furrows his eyebrows and sighs. _They might not be meant for me. Ira said nothing about clothes._ He helplessly looks down at the pile of his own clothes laying in a heap on the floor. Dirty. Full of stains. Torn. That outfit–well, hardly an outfit–has been in use for as long as he can remember. He’s taken them into the tailors a few times for resizing with the little bit of coin he has left after “message payment,” but he never has enough to buy something entirely new. Most of his coin is spent on food and water for his long trips as well as things for his family.

 

A loud knocking startles him from his thoughts.

“Flynn, may I come in?”

Panicked, he snatches the towel on one of the racks next to the bathtub and hurriedly wraps it around himself. “Come on in!”

Slowly, the door opens. Ira steps into his quarters and wrings her hands. “I must apologize. I forgot to tell you that you now have permission to access a majority of the places in the castle.”

“…Alright.” He blinks at her a couple of times. “Oh,” he says as he remembers his train of thought earlier and grabs the white tunic. “Is this for me?”

She nods. “Yes. That’s your new uniform. I also forgot to tell you that. I’m sorry.” She bows her head low.

“I-It’s alright… How did you guys get my measurements?”

She breathes out a laugh. “King Zellium asked every single tailor in Cephem if they knew your measurements. Three of them did.”

“They’re probably small, then.”

“Well, you’ll only have to see. I can escort you to the tailors in the castle if you wish.”

He shakes his head and looks back at the tunic in his hand. “I’ll see if they fit first.”

“Don’t hesitate to ask for my guidance if you need.” Ira closes the door and leaves.

 

With an excited smile, Flynn puts his arms through the sleeves and starts pulling at the small strips of leather through holes to tie it together. He steps in front of the mirror and watches as he folds them over and under each other again and again until he ties the top together. When he’s finished, he looks up to admire his handiwork. _The thing makes me look like a rectangle!_ He scrunches up his face with annoyance and sighs, irritated. He has three stops to make: family, the tailor, and then Meb. He’ll visit one of the tailors. There are many stitchery and clothes shops in Cephem. Almost too many. Disappointed, he takes his time untying and pulling the leather strips until the tunic slips away from his shoulders and onto the floor. _Maybe there’s something else?_ He wonders as he walks over to a closet across his room.

 

 

 

His tiny coin bag full of gold, silver, and iron coins bounces against his hip as he walks across the marketplace. The dark brown cloak attached to a casual yet traditional set of apprentice robes drags behind him on the cobblestone below. A large silver pin of a crescent-moon-covered sun catches the rays of light, seeming to shine brighter than the sun itself. People stare as he walks by, too. Everyone recognizes the image on his pin. It’s the King’s royal insignia!

            He adjusts his knapsack and knocks thrice on the door of Meb’s Mystical Emporium. He steps inside, making sure his hooves loudly clack against the floor to alert the old woman of his presence. He steps inside. “Meb?” He calls.

“Yes, _yes!_ Hold on a minute, will you, boy? I _told you already_ that I am _not_ reading your future a second time!” She yells, clearly frustrated. He winces when the sound of metal pots and pans falling onto the floor booms from a room behind her front counter. “Blasted–“ She slams the door open, “What do you want?” She finally looks up to see who’s called for her.

“That boy seems to have you in a whirl, doesn’t he?”

She gasps. “Flynn!” Meb, another satyr, like himself (only she has gray-brown-fur rather than ginger fur) exclaims with unconditional joy. She shuffles around the counter carefully enough to not knock any fragile vials full of unique concoctions, but with just enough reckless excitement to nearly do just that.

He smiles softly. “Good evening. Sorry I’m late.” He bows his head and winces when he feels a harsh smack on top of it.

“Don’t apologize, you foolish boy! You’re a royal messenger, and duty comes first.” She cups his face between her hands and roughly twists and turns it, inspecting him for any sign of injury or change. Her large, hazel-green eyes squint as she concentrates hard. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Quite. Why?”

“You look sick.”

“…Well, I certainly don’t _feel_ sick,” he says as she turns away from him. She starts digging around her shop, looking for ingredients, an empty vial, or perhaps one that’s already filled.

“Tell me, did you face anything strange in the woods while going to or coming from Reon?” She throws some flowers and dried berries onto the counter. “Any sort of bug, perchance?”

He shakes his head. “Not that I can remember.”

“Have you been eating?” She asks, shooting a pointed look over her small rectangular glasses.

He purses his lips and nods. “Yes. Of course, I have. I’m not _that_ foolish to starve myself,” He says quickly, not bothering to hide his guilt.

“Mhm,” She hums back sassily. He scoffs in return. “You have eaten, right?”

“Not yet. I’m going to have dinner when I return home.”

“So you _have_ been starving yourself!” She points out. “Stupid,” She hits his shoulder with a spoon. “When did you return?”

He gives her an offended look as he rubs his now pained shoulder. “Three hours ago.”

“Oh, well, that’s not so bad.”

“No. _See?!_ I’m not starving myself!”

“Close enough to it,” She retorts. “When are you leaving next?” Flynn watches with worry as she carelessly throws her glass vials–which look incredibly fragile–into the same bag in which she got some from before.

Still distracted, he says, “No.”

“ _’No?’_ What are you, deaf? I asked about your departure time!” She throws the same wooden spoon at him, which he luckily dodges, and frowns. “Are you _sure_ you’re feeling alright?”

“ _Yes_ ,” He says impatiently.

She turns around and shoots him a pleading  look. “You’re the son I never had, Flynn. Let me help you.” She sets her hands on the counter in front of her and cocks her head thoughtfully. “I know that you are a young and independent boy. Perhaps I could throw something together for you in case of danger. Or you might have an interest in learning new spells that are far more convenient than the ones you learned _years_ ago?”

“I wouldn’t mind either of those.”

“How about both?”

“That sounds wonderful. I’ll see you in the morrow’s morn?”

“Yes. Whenever you wake up. Be sure to spend time with your family, alright? Don’t let your duties or tasks or whatever it is that you do take up all your time,” She reminds. “By the way…” He hums curiously. He notes that her eyes scan his outfit smugly. “It’s about _time_ you got something different to wear!”

“Gods, this again?” He groans out and opens the door wide. He takes one large step out, slams the door, and speed-walks away. _There is no way I am going to argue with her about my lack of income!_ He loves Meb with all his heart, she’s like a second mother to him, but sometimes, just _sometimes,_ she can be annoying with her reminders and consistent suspicion of his well-being.

 

 

 

A loud pounding on his door causes Flynn to abruptly wake up. He groans tiredly and rubs his eyes. “Come on in,” He says, less than enthusiastic about his early awakening.

Ira walks in.

He inwardly sighs, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, and sits up on his bed.

“Goodness of morn to you, Flynn,” She greets and bows formally. She pulls in a cart full of delicious-looking breakfast foods. Almost immediately, their sweet scents fill his room. It’s a bit overwhelming and it causes his head to get a little bit fuzzy, but they look delicious, so it doesn’t matter. “The king has sent breakfast to you. He wants to make sure you are well-fed for… whatever it is he wants you to do today. _That_ I do not know.”

“Oh,” He says. ‘ _Oh?’ That’s all I can say?_ “Um,” He sputters, “thank you. That’s very kind of him–and of you, of course. You brought it here.” He eyes a small vanilla cake topped with a chocolate glaze-like frosting and a bowl of whipped cream. “Thank you.” He says again.

“Of course. Enjoy your breakfast.” She bows one final time and then walks out, leaving him with the cart. His stomach growls loudly, and immediately he reaches for the pile of pancakes.

 

An hour goes by, and he is nearly finished with each plate of food on the cart as well as the pitchers of milk and juice. Never in his life has he seen so much food on a table. _Breakfast_ food, especially. _I wonder if King Zellium does this for other Royal Messengers?_ He pushes the cart away from his bed weakly and very slowly gets up, aware that he will likely get sick if he moves too much. "Gods," he whispers to himself, absolutely astounded with the number of empty plates he neatly stacked up. He presses a hand to his chest and burps loudly

A loud series of knocks startles him. "Flynn, sir, may I come in? It's urgent." It's not Ira this time. _Thank the gods._

More than happily, he lets the servant boy in. "Yes?" He asks and burps again.

"King Zellium wants you to deliver another message," He says sympathetically. His face looks hurt when Flynn sighs. "I know, I know. You've only just arrived but-but there was an–"

"It's alright. Please, let me get my things together. Tell him I will be there in a few minutes."

The servant boy bows his head and leaves.

"Can't even spend one blasted day to myself to relax." He pulls on the same robes he wore yesterday and ties the leather pouches around his waist. Then, he swings his knapsack onto his back and storms out of his room. _I should just retire from this line of work. I forget how hard it is to relax, only to then leave the next day._ His steps are quick and loud and full of irritation.

 

"Goodness of morn to you, Flynn." The King says from his throne.

"And to you, my Lord." He bows his head when he comes to stand in front of him. "What is the urgent news?"

He massages his temples and sighs slowly, presumably to calm down. When he speaks finally, his voice is shaky with rage. "Serex was raided last night. Those Demrian rogue mages," He spat, "came under the shadow of night and-and _took_ people from us! Those _bastards!_ I'll-I'll send an _army_ to their homelands and-and…" his voice cracked and he went silent. His eyes screw shut and his hands shake. "Gabriel!" He snaps.

"Yes, father?" His son bows his head low and straightens again.

"How many soldiers are stationed at the border?"

"I am not sure, my lord. I will see to it." He bows again and leaves the castle. The doors boom shut and leave the two in a tense and uncertain silence.

"Sir, are you sending me to Reon?" Flynn asks, almost a whisper. " _Why_ can't you send someone else? Don't you have other messengers who are qualified in the behaviors of spies and thieves? Messengers who are skilled in fighting? Sir, I don't want to reject an order from you, but–"

"You are the most qualified for this trip," He starts, "because I trust you the most out of the others." He pauses, takes a breath, and continues, "Flynn, I wish I didn't have to send you either, but, you are the most loyal and honest. No one else gets to read the journals or have in on meetings with the others who I communicate with. This is not a matter of skill, but a matter of loyalty." The King steps down from his throne and places a hand on the shorter man's shoulder. "I need to know who I can place my trust in, and who I cannot."

Flynn's hazel eyes widen as he realizes that he is being thrown into something far more important than any other entry in that journal. Much more dangerous than any other trip he's made. "What can I help with?" He asks. "Besides… well, besides walking those treacherous miles to Reon."

The King sucks in a breath. "As of right now, I don't know what you can do, or what anyone can do for that matter." He steps back to a _much_ more comfortable distance and looks around the throne room to gather his thoughts. He opens his mouth, taking a breath in, to start speaking just as the large metal doors start to creak and groan loudly. More bright light pools onto the floor and glows around the small frame of Gabriel, clad in his shimmering silver armor. He bows deeply to King Zellium when he approaches the throne. He looks up at his father and nods.

The King returns to sitting on his throne, and Flynn stands next to it out of respect. "How many troops are patrolling the borders?" He asks.

"Five hundred in total. The bulk of them are at the border of Demria and the forests of Elderwood."

"And what about Serex?"

He sighs. "That is a little more complicated. I was told that everyone disappeared."

"So, there are _zero_ troops in Serex?"

"Fifty as of right now. There are couriers and mystics in close ties with Korella currently. She's busy writing reports and documenting all information sent to her."

"And what are the mystics doing?"

"They’re checking the balance of magical energy to regular energy. They're determining whether or not magic was used during the raid or not. Before you ask if I know, I do not. My apologies."

"Very well. Thank you." The King nods and waves his hand, dismissing his son to his duties. "Flynn," He says suddenly.

The poor satyr jumps in place, startled. "Flynn, I want to know your take on the raid last night."

"I.. I don't know what you want me to say–"

"Tell me how you feel about all of this… _chaos._ "

The ginger steps away from his side of the throne and instead leans against a part where he is visible to the King. "Well, I feel terrible about this, of course. I also feel that we should first _wait_ to see who actually invaded Serex last night rather than pointing fingers at the Demrians. For all we know, Elderwood or even Sparkwood could be having another disagreement and just-so-happened to invade Serex?" The King hums thoughtfully, taking Flynn's words into consideration. "There's even the possibility that Reon captured the inhabitants of Serex."

King Zellium makes an offended noise and exclaims, "Reon!” He frowns angrily, then makes a face of pure disbelief. “Garuyl-na would _never_ do such a thing!"

Flynn clicks his tongue and wags his finger disapprovingly. "My lord, you forget that Reon is nearly in a five-way civil war. That country is falling apart. The other tribes could very well come after us if they know that we are allies."

"Only the animalistic tribes…"

"Of course. All five territories except Garuyl-na, I assume?"

"Yes," the King hisses. "Are you doubting the loyalty and trustworthiness of Garuyl-na?"

"It's better to be safe," Flynn says, "than sorry. Better to doubt now and form stronger trust later, no?" He stands in front of the throne. "Now, am I to inform Garuyl-na of this raid, or shall I stay and wait for your orders?"

The King shakes his head dismissively and waves his hand strangely. Everything that king does is _strange_ to Flynn. His mannerisms are strange. His hair color is weird and unnatural. His eyes a cold and unkind-looking violet… Yet everything is perfectly normal, and his eyes and heart display endless depths of kindness and empathy. "Not yet, no. You need a day's break. Go do what you wish. When you return, I'll give you an update on the situation."

Flynn shoots him a thankful smile, bows low, and exits the castle.

 

 

 

His white uniform is fixed by the time he arrives to pick it up. With the little coin he has, he manages to pay the minor expense. _Maybe I should talk to Meb about my financial situation._ He purses his lips in a quick, irritated smile, and raises his hand as a wave to the tailors before hurrying out to Meb's shop. As he's quickly walking through the marketplace, passing by stalls and farmers, herbalists and tailors, he can't help but notice how empty it feels. Normally he picks up on the excitement, the anticipation, the comfortably crowded ambience of the large space, but not today, no. Today people mourn the raid on Serex or… _whatever_ happened down there. Although the King calls it a raid, Flynn is able to understand that he tends to go on rage-filled tangents and mix up certain words. English is not his first language, after all.

He notices Madmen and their Apprentices squeezing through the dense crowd of civilians with sour expressions of annoyance, on a mission. Always on a mission.

He sees couriers for different postal services from all across Zellium scamper around the dense crowd of deeply troubled people. Frequently checking their clipboards and pulling out scrolls, and envelopes, and boxes, and delivering them to each person on their list. That is how courier services work, after all. It's a common job for Satyrs like himself, postal services. They all have an incredible amount of fatigue and strength and stamina, so it's no wonder that many companies prefer Satyrs for daunting or tiresome work that the other races would likely drop from.

He turns a sharp corner and nearly runs into a wagon full of watermelons. He starts running to Meb's Mystical Emporium soon after apologizing profusely to the merchant. The door opens easily (and loudly) when he finally arrives. It nearly slams into the wall when he steps right in, his arm unintentionally threw it open a bit too hard.

"Watch the door, now! Don't break the damn thing!" He hears Meb yell from the small room behind her desk.

"Goodness of morn to you as well, Meb!" He yells back, feeling chipper and rather joyful.

The door to her back room slams open and into a cabinet next to it, and in the doorway stands Meb with a happy smile on her face. "Goodness of morn to you! It's wonderful to see you again." She clenches her long skirt with her hands tightly and thoughtfully before finally seeming to collect her thoughts. "I've been working on something for your travels. Something you might find useful."

He quirks an eyebrow. "And that is?"

She holds up a finger and retreats into her back room. "Are you going to Reon any time soon?" She asks.

"No, I don't think so. King Zellium isn't sending me back today."

Her relieved sigh makes him chuckle. "Good! We have many things to go over, then," She says and drops a small journal on the table. It's a quaint little thing. Dark brown hard leather with an intricate pattern of swirls and diamonds and circles around the rim. Looks like a spellbook to him.

"Is it a spellbook?"

She squints her eyes at him and purses her lips into a straight line. "Yes," She snaps in a way that sounds defensive, but he knows it's not. He notes the smile she holds back and smiles brightly at her.

"I am going to learn some new spells, then, I assume." He feels jittery and excited after saying that. The thought of learning new spells and wielding magic is exciting. If he learns enough spells and becomes powerful enough, he may be able to use stronger and powerful teleportation spells to make trips to different places nearly effortless. Especially Reon, considering how often he travels there.

She nods her head and closes her eyes. "You are correct." She stands like that for a moment, with her eyes closed, posed thoughtfully, and frowns. "Give me a moment. I need to find something else."

 

She hurries into the back room again and approaches one of her bookshelves full to the brim with–well, books! Books beyond galore! She's run out of space. It's not difficult to tell. For piles of them are placed at random around the back room, and on top of some of those piles are different (and valuable) pieces of equipment for potion-making or spell-making. She maneuvers around the cluttered room carefully enough to not knock any of said equipment from such book piles, but with just enough eagerness and excitement to _nearly_ do just that. Her eyes scan over dust-covered titles, all of which organized by author and subject. The books’ brown bindings worn from age and use and letters that were once shimmery and golden now look faded and dull. It strikes her as odd how such a powerful wave of nostalgia has the power to bring tears to her eyes. She remembers how excited she was when the opportunity first arose to take in an apprentice.

It was a fine young girl named Katherine.

A dark red-haired, orange-eyed girl, full to the brim with excitement and an impatience to learn something _new_. The desire to ditch the old and jump from one thing to the next without even finishing the first. She was just like Flynn. The fellow Satyr may not be the most expressive, but it is obvious how much awe and fascination he has for the subject.

She shakes her head, bringing her mind back to reality, and runs her fingers across a line of books until she runs into the three the has used the most.  A book on the Anatomy of Magics, one solely based on techniques of channeling magic, and another on physical requirements for levels of spells _. Flynn's a smart man. He will understand them._

She talks as she leaves the back room. "So," she starts, "I have a book on the basics of magic, which has a brief introduction to its history and in-depth lessons about how it works in your body. You may know this as its more _modern_ terminology of 'Anatomy of Magics.' The name of it speaks for itself and its content. It certainly is _the anatomy_ of magics in one's body." Flynn takes the book in one hand and runs the other on its cover. "Be careful with it. It's incredibly old and fragile."

"Is it as old as you are?" He asks and holds back a laugh.

"Careful, boy!" She playfully shoots him a sharp glare. "I don't even remember how old I am, anyway."

He hums thoughtfully, "Four mi-" She squints her eyes more. " _Forty!_ Yes, yes… Forty years old."

She grunts and continues introducing the books. "The second book I have for you is about the techniques of channeling your magic. When we get further in our lessons, this will become very important if you wish to hone your skills at a quicker rate than most." She drops that book onto the other one in his arms. "The third and final book I will give you to start with will teach you about the physical aspect of magic. You need to be fit, or at least have enough stamina, in order to cast certain spells. I'm sure that will be easy for you, won't it?"

"Uhm… I suppose." He places the books on the counter next to the spellbook and sighs. "When do I start?"

"Well, certainly not now. I have a shop to run!" She says.

Although disappointed, Flynn nods. "Ah, I forgot," He says sheepishly and scratches the back of his neck. "Thank you, Meb. I will look over these first so I don't start these lessons in complete obliviousness."

"Smart! I will see you later, no?"

"You will. I hope. Thank you." He picks up the books in one arm and struggles to open the door. "Oh," he remembers, "which book should I study first?"

"Read about the techniques. It will make channeling your known spells easier, and it will help me teach you."

He nods and then leaves her shop. _Techniques, okay._ He slowly travels back to the castle, stopping frequently to adjust his hold on the heavy books. They nearly drop from his arms on a few occasions after being bumped into by careless civilians, but they are safe and unharmed when he stumbles into the courtyard. A fleet of silver-clad guards run by him to Korella's office seemingly in a panic, and very suddenly Flynn feels like something worse happened in Serex than what he was told. The guards at the main entrance open the door for him per usual and greet him formally, then shut the doors behind him, leaving him in the eerie silence of the throne room that has become all too familiar. King and Queen Zellium aren't sitting in their thrones. In front of them sits a representative of the two in his own chair _. This has never happened before_. Flynn frowns with annoyance _. Another person I need to know. I need to meet everyone and learn about everything in this castle_. He sighs and begins the short walk to his living quarters, knowing that an introduction is inevitable.

 

"Good afternoon," The representative says. "Who might you be?" He taps his pen against the book he was writing in.

"Flynn," He says. "I am one of the Royal Messengers."

"Ah, yes. I've heard a great deal about you, Flynn. The Royal Majesties admire you."

He hums and holds back a smirk of pride. "Where are they?"

"I believe they are in a meeting. They must be busy discussing Serex." The man shakes his head with disappointment. “Such an unfortunate occurrence, I must say.”

“Indeed.” They don’t talk for a while. “Well, uh… Very nice meeting you. I must be off, now. I have… studies to tend to…” He stammers out awkwardly before bowing the best he can with the stack of heavy books in arm.

“You as well, you as well. Enjoy your studies!” He hears behind him when he passes through the arching doorway that Ira took him through the first time he was shown his living quarters.

He slows down considerably to admire the mural painted on the ceiling of the grand hallway he currently walks through. He did not have enough time yesterday. Plus, Ira walked with a brisk pace he could barely keep up with. Now, _finally,_ he can relax, if only for an hour or so. This means he can explore and learn his way around the castle. He does, after all, have access to all wings and rooms in the castle. _Or maybe that is something Ira mistakenly told me rather that someone else._ He scowls when her face enters his mind. Large brown eyes full of innocence and naïveté (and forgetfulness), dark brown hair running to her back, short stature, and an annoyingly soft voice. The poor half-elf girl hasn’t done a single thing truly terrible, yet she makes Flynn grit his teeth with annoyance. She makes his ears twitch with annoyance, and she makes his skin crawl with discomfort. Really, he doesn’t want to hate her. All he wants is peace and quiet with _no_ interruptions. He wants information, all of it, spoken or written correctly and given to him in one moment.

No interruptions.

 _No interruptions,_ he pleas for internally and opens the door to his room. Everything except his bed is in the same place and condition it was when he left his room earlier. His bedsheets are pulled and made again, and the cart that held his breakfast is gone. He finds comfort briefly in knowing his things are safe.

The books in his arms grow incredibly heavy all of a sudden, and he feels fatigued. He drops his knapsack onto the floor and carefully throws the books onto his bed. He stares at them almost feverishly (He’s excited, you see.) before inspecting each of the books’ first few pages to determine which book deals with techniques. It’s a blue book. The blue book with an eye inside of the palm of a hand imprinted on the cover. He studies the unique image for a moment and briefly feels uncomfortable with the way they eye stares into nothing, yet seems to stare into his very soul. It’s not a realistic eye at all. It simply consists of curved lines and circles, but it seems to be _real_. Of course, he’s heard that magic tomes or spellbooks or almost _anything_ affiliated with the magic arts typically has an aura of mystery or a hidden vale of otherworldly consciousness embedded into the object.

But, for all he knows, he could be going insane by the second; very slowly descending into madness, and the eye might happen to be the beginning of it all.

 

 

 

A loud knocking startles Flynn beyond wit’s end. He was engrossed in the book’s contents. Motionlessly, he sits for a moment and processes the things he finished reading. His mind is a tornado of excitement and eagerness, but he hears the knocking again and a curious call of his name, which prompts him to stand up and actually answer the door. He’s pleasantly surprised to see Meb. She wears an annoyed look. Her arms are crossed, and her eyes squint at him suspiciously.

“You take a long time to answer the door.”

“I was _reading_ the book you gave me.”

 

(i'll update later lol)


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